


Wait until it stops rolling.

by Dark_Eyed_Junco



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Knuckleball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Eyed_Junco/pseuds/Dark_Eyed_Junco
Summary: She paid him a visit in the winter.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sharksdontsleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharksdontsleep/gifts).



> For Sharksdontsleep. Because I'm impatient.

1.

She paid him a visit in the winter. Not that there were really seasons in LA. But it was winter, nonetheless. He opened the door in ratty sweatpants and without a shirt over his softening gut, holding a half-empty beer bottle to his mouth. He thought it would be pizza knocking, or an Amazon delivery.

But no. It was her.

He wasn't embarrassed. He had nothing to prove now, to anyone. Except maybe God.

“I've lost two miles on my fastball,” she said, straight off. “And I can't get the screwball to break like it used to.”

He lowered the beer an inch. He grunted.

She looked at him, then past him, over his shoulder through a three-sided gap framed by the separate lines of his body – forearm, bicep, the side of his neck – into the rest of the house.

He stepped back from the door and let her in.

“They're thinking about putting me into relief.” Every sentence out of her mouth was a new pronouncement. On the sofa she found a shirt and threw it to him.

There was brown dog hair on the collar. He set the beer down – it was some IPA bullshit, no good anyway – and put the shirt on. What ever happened to Mike Lawson, lady killer? He might actually get somewhere asking the shirt; it was the last one he'd ever received from the league. San Diego Padres, NLCS champs, 2018.

Long ways from 2018 now.

“Not spending the holidays with family?” he asked her. She was rooting through the magazines on his coffee table now, and it was better to stop her before she got to a swimsuit issue.

“Memories,” she said. She stopped with the magazines and stared right at him. “I don't want to be done.”

Another pronouncement. _One day,_ he thought.

They went out into the backyard. “Dan Haren threw 88,” he told her. “It's even the name of his Twitter account.”

“Dan Haren is Dan Haren, not me. And I wasn't throwing 88 my rookie season, much less now.”

“You could touch it,” he said. “You threw three innings at 88 once. Postseason. Adrenaline. Remember?”

“Yeah, and my command went to shit. Remember?” She put out her arms. “Ever day I feel myself getting stiffer. I'm turning to stone, it's something out of a myth. Feel.”

“If we're talking about myths, then I'm a gargoyle.” They were going to find out soon if he could even still squat. He put hands on her slim arms and slid them up to the joint. There were no scars there. She could be thankful for that, at least. He laid a thumb into the soft crease of her elbow. “Not stone yet.”

They stretched first. She went back into the house to turn on the porch light, then stood out on the patio and watched him, grunting on the grass. “Maybe you have turned into a gargoyle,” she said. He flipped her off.

Catch next. Long toss. “You owe me ten bucks for every ball in the pool,” he said.

“Your pool boy is overcharging you,” she said, then paced back ten feet. He would know when they were ready to begin when she was a little smaller in his field of vision then felt right. “But I guess you can afford it.”

“So can you,” he said. “Alright, come in.” He finished his drink (a Miller Lite this time) and hunkered down into a squat, swapped the empty bottle for his mitt, which he'd thrown out onto the grass when he'd first gotten outside. New leather, and too stiff. He'd meant to break it in, but first months and then years had passed and he'd never bothered. He punched into it, twice, then winked the pocket at her. “Let's go.”

The fastball was slow. He could tell by how it looked, how it sounded, and the way it didn't sting his hand when he caught it.

“See?” she asked. “It's down.”

“You're on flat ground,” he said, automatically. “It's not a game. It's the middle of winter and your arm's not ready yet.” She shook her head at him; he hesitated, but she was right. There was no need to run the calculus. He shrugged. “What have you got for me, then?”

“I've learned a new pitch,” she said. She was unsure. Not unsure like a regular person. The unsure of a veteran pitcher, trained to never let it show. Unless you were her catcher, of course. Then it was obvious.

“Your dad tell you about this one, way back then?”

“No,” she said. She smiled. “This one I taught myself.”

It was a knuckleball. It went right into the pool. “Oh,” he said. “Another trick pitch.”

“Mike,” she said. Still smiling.

He stood up and grabbed the skimmer – he couldn't see at a glance where the net was – to rake the ball back into reach. The small Japanese-themed lamps were on, light bouncing off the surface of the dark water, as well as one off-white baseball. Bobbing. He couldn't see the red of the seams in the twilight until the ball was in his hand, cool and damp. It was hard to get a good grip. He turned his head back to where she was waiting to finish her sentence.

“When have you ever known me to be out of tricks?” And she held up her glove to signal for her ball back.

**

2.

Blip paid a visit over the All-Star Break. Evelyn too. She didn't look like she'd aged a year: her skin was still smooth, she was still beautiful. He did look like he had aged, which was even putting it kindly. “Visiting friends in San Diego,” he said, pulling Mike into a powerful bear hug. “Thought we'd swing by and say hey to your old ass.”

“Get out of my way, I want to see how your wife is doing.” He hugged her too, for good measure.

They went out to the patio and told each other old and worn stories. Mike's place was up on a hill, and as the sun set lights started to flick on underneath them, faster and faster. LA's version of a starry sky, one vast glittering plain. It was like a scene out of an introspective indie movie, the old friends having a drink together. Blip had brought his championship ring, which he ended up handing to Evelyn to wear. It was too large on her finger, sliding down to rest against her knuckle, diamonds winking. A tacky piece of jewelry, really. But even after all these years the thrill came right back, champagne down his beard, the buzz of foam on his lips. Nostalgia central.

“So,” said Blip, when they reached the time of night where reminiscences became played out. “How's retirement treating you? Old man?”

“It was funny the first time.”

“Alright, alright. I'm serious though, what's up with you? Dating anyone?”

“Yeah, actually. For a few months now. Not a journalist this time. Nothing to do with any sport. Pretty refreshing.”

“You know, you're back in the papers. Everyone's talking about Ginny's new pitch, how you might have had a hand it. She was sighted in LA over the winter and people started putting and two together.”

“Man,” he said. “Don't remind me.” He'd already had to start screening his calls. People were calling day and night sniffing for quote on the feel good sports narrative of the year.

“That thing's giving me fits, by the way. I can't be grounding into the infield all the time, I don't got the legs of an outfielder anymore.”

“The minute he got into the American League,” said Evelyn. “I've never seen a man let himself go so fast.”

“Blame your mom's cooking.” Blip leaned in close to Mike and fake-whispered, “Evelyn's looking to upgrade, but little does she know, I've already warned off every beefy center fielder in the league. I know what she likes.” He put his head back and laughed; Evelyn scoffed and rolled an elbow into his side, then sat up.

“That was sweet of you,” she said to Mike. “To help her.”

“What else is an old catcher good for?”

“You should get back in the game,” said Blip. “All-star catchers make all-star managers. Isn't that a saying? Didn't someone say that?”

“Only in your head,” he said. “And no thanks.”

“As long as you're helping out old teammates though, what about me?”

“It's a little late for you, isn't it?”

Blip ignored that, which was too bad. Mike had thought it was pretty good. “Tell me how to hit that knuckleball. Any pointers?”

“Blip,” said Evelyn. Reproachfully.

“Don't 'Blip' me, woman. Six at-bats aren't going to kill anyone's ERA. Mike, come on, man. Hook a bro up.”

He had put a cube of ice into his scotch. Now it was melted down, and when he shook his tumbler it almost seemed to disappear. “Well,” he said. “She was tipping the pitch.”

“Really?”

“So you could tell when she was trying to sneak a fastball by you.”

“What was it? Something to do with her glove?”

“Yeah, she would do this thing, like, I don't know.” He made a hand motion that wasn't a true attempt to replicate the real thing. “Only when she was in the stretch. Something to do with the grip threw her off there.”

Blip leaned forward, intently. “Show me again?”

He made another gesture.

“That's different than what you did before.”

“Was it? Hardly matters anyway. I worked that tell out of her five months ago. Look for it all you want; her delivery is perfect.”

“Tch,” said Blip. He sat back, with a sigh.

“Six at-bats wouldn't do much to your slugging stats, anyway.”

“To be fair,” said Evelyn. “That depends on the at-bats.” They smiled at each other, to Blip's feigned disgust.

Some of the lights spread out beneath them blinked off, one by one. The night was thickening and coming to its natural end; it was harder to speak and break the silence. Blip and Evelyn had their heads together and their fingers tangled, close. Mike put his glass on the armrest of his lounger and stood heavily to his feet. “Well,” he said. They looked up at him, blinking. “Do me a favor. The next time you see her, tell her - ” What? Ride it while you can and give it up when you should?  He couldn't straighten out what he wanted to say, what he wanted her to know. “Tell her she still owes me ten bucks.”

**

3.

The boy paid him a visit in the spring.

It would have been a long drive from Arizona, and he said so.

“I'd love your help,” said the boy. He had a soft Southern accent. He was maybe from Tennessee or Kentucky but probably not Texas, tall for a catcher and not so thick, with these very fine blonde whiskers on his jaw. His hands were enormous, and he mostly kept them in his pockets, like he was afraid of imposing them onto the world. He was at most twenty-one, and exceedingly handsome in spite of the beard. “I can't handle the knuckle.”

“Stop me if you've heard this one before,” he said. “Wait until it - “

“I've, ah. I've heard it. A lot.”

“You haven't brought her,” he noted. “It's a little hard to learn how to catch something in your mind's eye.”

The boy flushed. He shook his head, and said, “I don't want her to know I had to ask for help.”

“You're wasting my time.”

“Please, sir,” he said. His voice cracked. It was easy for him to be humble for Mike, for a few regrettable reasons, but a few proud ones too. “I drove for 6 hours. I gotta drive back tonight. Give me something. Give me anything.”

“I've never caught that pitch in a game.”

“But everyone knows,” said the boy, and then trailed off, which was too bad. Mike didn't know what everyone knew.

They went out into the backyard. One of the neighbors was flying a drone. Goddamn rich fucks. Hell of a neighborhood to live in. “You ever watch Thole when you were growing up?” he asked. “Don't set up, you can't commit too early. Leave your mitt on your thigh, loose, like this.” He demonstrated. “And then you need to – anticipate.”

“Anticipate.”

“Yeah. And relax. While keeping the wind in mind.”

“I tried that. Didn't work.”

“Look, kid - “

“I got a name,” he said, but soft enough that Mike could ignore it, which he did.

“Kid, how long have you been catching? Ten years? Less?” The boy nodded. “Maybe you haven't been behind the plate long enough. One day, nothing a ball does during sixty feet of flight can surprise you anymore. There's nothing to do until then but work on it.” He stood and shook out his legs, spread his arms wide, palms up. “Sorry. I don't have a magic bullet.”

“But,” said the boy.

“But what?” he asked. “But you've never had to before? Because everything's always come easy for you before?” He shook his head. This was like knocking the running game into the skull of a hotshot who struck everyone out in the minors and only knew how to trust himself, not his defense. “Look at you.” These clean, heavy lines of muscle. “What do you slug?”

He perked right up. “35 home runs in the Southern - “

“Nevermind, nevermind. Why don't you just have them switch you to first and be done with it?”

Now he bristled. “I'm a catcher!”

“Then act like one,” he snapped back. “Forget about catching it neatly. You just have to keep it in front of you. There's plenty of chest here for that.” He reached over and tapped the boy's breastbone. “Matter over mind. Get your knees into the dirt and do the work. What else is youth for?”

Chastened, the boy looked down at his feet. A long moment of silence passed. “Can I ask you a question?” he asked his shoes. “How did you handle it?”

“I already told you,” he said, patiently.

“Not the knuckleball. Everything. The money. The girls. The attention. Everyone wanting to be my friend, and the boys in the clubhouse telling me to buy a new, fast car, and standing in the middle of an empty apartment real fucking homesick. About to throw up. They want me to be a second you, manage the staff and bat in a hundred runs and I can't even work the damn oven, my life's out of control and it's, someone's gonna figure out I don't belong here. And, goddamn, goddamn if I still can't fucking catch that fucking knuckleball.”

He was the absolute last person to be giving any young guns life advice. A light went on in the house, and his wife appeared in one of the living room windows. She looked for and found him, standing at the edge of the grass. They had dinner plans. “Boy,” he said, his mind starting to go elsewhere. “You wait until it stops rolling, and then you pick it up.”

 


End file.
